i wish i knew that you cared. i wish, not only that i knew, but that i was certain, that i was vibrating out of my skin with the certainty in every fiber of my bones that you cared about me and this friendship. 
i wished that you still came to me, with the trivial things, with the miniscule things. i wish we could joke about guys together, and that we could cry about our wavering faith together. i wish we could sing together louder than usual because we know we’ll probably never do it in an organized setting ever again. i wish that we could stuff our faces together because it’s one of the only things we’re good at. i wish we could be shameful together and i wish we could be bashful and i wish we could be beautiful and i wish we could be ourselves. but you won’t let me in anymore and i don’t know that you care, even when you say it. and that’s why i can’t stop being like this. i can’t stop being like this.

no matter what i want to write you come out in the text. you are a metaphor for everything i do and you are my favorite adjectives for everything i breathe. i start to write about the reasons i want to have fun and you are my rational reasoning. i talk about why i need to be grounded and you take my mind a flight. i talk about the being a friend to someone and you are my example for either the best or the worst of the lot. i want to starve myself but read everything i’ve written for the past month and it sounds like i’ve already been doing that. i want to write something inspirational, not just hopeful. please leave me alone and kindly leave any traces of artistic ability behind. thank you.

(Source: askpillow, via thetumblesofreel)

you do not get those pieces of yourself back. you will never be a finished puzzle. you will never look as beautiful standing in front of a shattered mirror. those are only bad luck anyway.

debilitating:

I like running because then my heart is pounding for a reason I can understand.

(via writingsforwinter)

i’m just too cowardly to go out like that, with tears streaming down my face and plainly asking him not to leave me. why is my fear of looking weak stronger than my fear of being alone?

it does not matter that i know
all of the places you are most ticklish
and it does matter that you loathe
feet but you still let me rest mine perpendicular
to your head when we lay opposite
of each other on your hunter green futon

my tone will never be nurturing enough even
if i know all of the questions to ask which
your mother forgot after your just taxing
day of school and sprint workouts

is it because i do not leave you in questioning
that you looked for the answers elsewhere
or is it because your hands got lost
in the crevace of my lower back
and you needed someone more
stable to rest them upon

stop shaking!

stop running drink more and smoke less
rather breathe in the purity of my
affection until your pores are oozing
radiance and you’re certain this is
what the search was for
your thirst is quenched indubitably
you didn’t have to speed ahead and leave
me behind to cross that impending
finish line just hold my palms

we still have time we still have time

aclockworkplum:

He is bruised knuckles and a sore back. He is always fighting something — mostly inanimate objects, himself included. There is ruin left wherever he goes, but he can’t feel past his own ache.

She is shattered glass and bloody feet. She is always playing in distruction while pretending she is cleaning up. She never notices how much the mess has grown by the time she leaves. Blood stains are so hard to wash out.